


Like Old Times

by Delphicoracle-Cat (Delphicoracle_Cat)



Category: Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 18:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphicoracle_Cat/pseuds/Delphicoracle-Cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben Daimio never realized how much he missed a good bout of monster-hunting. It certainly helped to have Abe Sapien at his side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Old Times

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tartary_lamb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tartary_lamb/gifts).



**Like Old Times**

 

I guess this is kind of like having a cat, Ben Daimio mused.

Talk about a desperate attempt to think of anything in his life as normal. He’d never actually owned a cat in his life, but if pop culture had taught him one thing about cats, it was that they liked killing birds and rodents and proudly bringing the carcass home to show the family.

So really, this was no different. Except he was a family of one, his ‘home’ was wherever he could make a safe stop in the woods, and his ‘cat’ was a huge, snow-white, black-eyed wendigo, trotting back carrying half a dead moose in his jaws.

The look of animal pride was probably like a cat, Ben thought, smiling as Darryl dropped the moose in the snow in front of him.

“Nice one today,” Ben remarked, pulling out a hunting knife from his coat pocket. Darryl crouched down, watching the human carefully as he hacked into the moose’s flank, unmindful of the gush of blood, and carved out a good-sized chunk of meat.

Ben knew from past experience not to delay getting his piece of the meal before Darryl devoured the rest. Though it was difficult to communicate with the wendigo, Ben seemed to agree that the creature was willing to hunt for them both and share his kill, though only if Ben got his share before Darryl became too hungry. He’d gotten snapped at before for taking too long. He was sure that cats too snapped at anyone touching their kills, but cats weren’t the size of a Westfalia van.

Wordlessly, he speared the hunk of meat onto the end of another knife—an older one, the blade worn down and useless for anything more than roasting marshmallows-- and held it above the campfire he’d built earlier that day while Darryl blinked down at the remainder of the bleeding moose, finally trapping it in his spindly hands and bringing it up to his mouth to methodically chew the meat off.

Ben almost always kept a fire going these days. With the advent of winter in northern Ontario, he needed it to keep his ass from freezing, and to cook whatever meat Darryl brought back on his grocery shopping runs. With all of these monsters crawling around the world lately, it seemed pointless to practice any kind of hiking stealth. Better to stick with a bit of warmth and comfort, he decided. He would barely admit, not to Darryl and certainly not to himself, that the campfire served a secondary purpose; that of attracting the attention of someone he _wanted_ to attract.

Living in the woods, it would have been easy to lose track of time and space. Maybe it was easy, for most everyone else, but not Ben. Maybe it was some residual Marine training, but he kept a good mental tally of the days and months as they went past. He knew it was the first Thursday of November, and a damn cold one at that with snow blanketing the fields and forests; he knew more or less exactly where he was, in the wilderness of northern Ontario, despite being constantly on the move.

And because of all this, he knew it had been almost exactly five months since he’d last gotten a visit from anyone that wasn’t a wendigo. Not that he was counting the days or anything.

He didn’t let the moose steak cook for very long; just enough to kill the taste of raw meat, because he wasn’t an animal, damn it, and he still cooked his food and ate it like a civilized person. The meat cooled quickly in the chilly evening air and Ben tore a piece off with his gloved hand, popping it in his mouth.

“Not bad,” he said to Darryl. “For tomorrow, how about a pot roast?”

Darryl looked up from his meal as he noticed he was being addressed. He blinked owlishly and made a low whine; the wendigo didn’t seem particularly capable of speech anymore, but he frequently responded to Ben’s questions with that low whining sound.

“A goulash? Maybe lasagna? Aw hell, just make it a surprise.”

Darryl blinked in a way that looked a little like a shrug, or maybe even like an eye-roll, and went back to his meal.

You and me both, pal, Ben thought, finishing half of the moose meat and tossing the rest into a nearby snow pile. More than enough for breakfast tomorrow.

Brushing the meat juice and snow from his hands, Ben began the tedious task of unrolling his sleeping bag, choosing a spot by the fire he’d cleared of snow earlier that evening. He slept, as his father would say, like a farmer—out at dusk and up at dawn. What else could he do? Travelling after nightfall was dangerous. He didn’t exactly have a TV or internet access. He might as well sleep.

He thought about asking Darryl if he felt up to a game of Scrabble, but decided he’d made enough dumb jokes for one day. Darryl never laughed, anyway.

He didn’t bother saying good-night to Darryl—never did, not that the wendigo would mind—and stared into the fire as he waited for sleep to come. Five months, since he’d seen a friendly face that wasn’t snow-white and perpetually blood-stained. And even longer than that since he’d actually done anything useful for this world, killed a monster or two, protected someone. He’d tried telling himself he wasn’t just some crazy wildman living in the woods now—he was still Captain Benjamin Daimio, fighting the good fight out here in nature, just far away from the people he risked hurting while he did so.

It’d just be nice if he could actually fight that good fight once a while. Christ, what he wouldn’t give for a zombie or a possessed shoe or something to shoot, just to prove that he could still do it.

He fell asleep with the flames of the campfire flicking behind his eyelids, and dreamt of blood, flesh and giant crawling spiders. Dream-Ben giggled like a little boy as he threw his meat-roasting knife at them and cooked them over the campfire.

***

It would be another month before Ben would get his next visit.

The snow melted under a slight heat (or what passed as a heat wave in Northern Ontario) only to return with a vengeance one week later. Now it was here to stay, sticking hard to the ground and trees. Ben didn’t think it was so bad. As long as he kept a fire going, he was sitting pretty easy. Getting a little tired of moose meat, but he wasn’t about to complain about it to Darryl.

It was late one early December afternoon when he heard the faint crunching of footsteps on the snow, slow and measured, and trained to be quiet. It was only because Ben had been trained to be vigilant that he even caught the noise. That, and the fact that Darryl would have alerted him to the presence anyway, flicking his head towards the sound like a dog hearing a thump in the distance. Darryl did not like company; with a miserable slump, he turned and crawled out into the forest, ready to wait until Ben was alone again.

“Have any trouble finding the place?” Ben quipped as the footsteps crunched louder and stopped behind him.

“A porch light would help,” Abe Sapien said coolly. He’d gotten used to Ben’s sorry attempts at jokes; spending months at a time alone in the woods with a monster for company would suddenly make any horrible pun seem hilarious.

As much as Ben knew it was silly, he appreciated Abe’s tolerance. What other friend would have done that for him? “I’ll mention it to the wife.”

With a rare smirk, Ben turned around to properly greet his friend. Abe was bundled up in a standard-issue BPRD winter jacket, glove and boots, his large blue eyes blinking rapidly against the cold. Nice getup; he looked exactly like you’d expect a fish wrapped in a parka to look. An overstuffed backpack hung from one of his shoulders.

“You look gorgeous,” Ben said, eyeing the backpack and moving over a bit on his fallen log to make room. “Are those my Christmas presents?”

“You could say that,” Abe said, taking the invitation and crunching his way through the snow towards Ben. He let the backpack fall heavily to the ground before sitting. “I can’t say if you’ve been nice or not, but I figured you might need a few things.”

Ben murmured appreciatively as Abe unzipped the backpack and pulled out a few things, dropping them in the snow in front of Ben for his inspection. No tender passing of items from hand to hand for them. It was a pretty good haul too; wilderness necessities like waterproof matches, a knife sharpener, a few bags of field rations and even a fleece sweater. Damn it all, but he’d never wanted a sweater for Christmas so badly.

He couldn’t help but smile as Abe pulled out one particular item—a hip flask, clearly filled with liquid. Ben immediately dove for it and unscrewed the cap, giving an appreciative sniff. “Whiskey? Not too shabby.”

“I thought you could use a little pick-me-up.”

“This is good stuff,” Ben said. He took a quick sip, all but sighing in mindless rapture as the whiskey burned a fiery path of joy down his throat. It was really the small things one missed out here in the woods. He handed the flask to Abe. “Thank you.”

Abe nodded in reply. He didn’t smile—he never smiled—but he certainly seemed pleased that his presence had been well received. He took the flask between his heavily-gloved fingers and took a small drink, casting a quick look out into the quiet woods.

“Is Darryl around?”

“He took off as soon as he heard you coming. He doesn’t care for company, you know.”

“It would be nice to talk to him again.”

“Just as well. I ain’t sharing the flask with him.”

Abe handed him the drink back. This time, Ben took a longer sip, savouring the flavour before swallowing. “So, what’s going at the Bureau these days?”

Abe shrugged eloquently. “The usual. World’s going to hell. Does it really matter?”

“Everyone doing okay? Kate, Liz… Johann?”

Abe pinched his mouth into a hard line before answering. “They’re fine.”

He had a pretty good inkling that things weren’t ‘fine’ at all, but he would settle for that if he had to. ‘Fine’ was better than ‘dead’, ‘disemboweled’, or ‘gone to Hell’. Most of the time, anyway.

“You and Darryl are making good progress through these woods,” Abe remarked. “It keeps taking me longer and longer to track you down.”

“I noticed.” Ben wondered how long it would take before the time between visits would grow so long that they’d stop altogether. He doubted Abe would get bored and stop; but things were moving and shaking in the world, at the Bureau, and sooner or later the visits would have to stop.

They would stop, Ben knew, either because the world would literarily go to Hell, or because Abe himself finally dropped dead. No use sugarcoating what he knew to be a possibility, though he found himself surprised to realize that the thought of Abe’s death upset him more than the end of the world.

It was getting to be a struggle to keep from admitting how he didn’t want these visits to end. He hadn’t seen Abe for six months, and he knew Abe would probably have to leave in the morning to start the journey back to the Bureau, to avoid the others getting suspicious… but damn if a small part of Ben wasn’t hoping for a frog monster to burst from the ground, if only for the two to get some time together beyond awkward campfire conversation. He missed those days.

“So Ben…” Abe began, startling the captain out of his reverie. “Have you been to the area south-west of there? Maybe two miles or so past the woods?”

He took one last swig and handed the flask back to Abe. “Haven’t headed in that direction yet. Why?”

“There’s a small farming township there… St-Antoine de Bellechasse, if I’m remembering the name right. Not many people, maybe a hundred or so with all the families. I ran into one of the farmers yesterday on my way here and he introduced me to the rest of the township.”

“Nice. They didn’t flip out when they saw you?”

Abe shrugged. “It’s not like the Bureau’s not public knowledge, especially these days. And these people have televisions and Internet; considering what’s been happening in the world lately, I don’t think my presence would faze them. People these days have seen a lot worse than my pretty face. And St-Antoine de Bellechasse has been having its own set of otherworldly problems.”

Ben sat up a little straighter, very interested in what Abe had to say now. “Frogs? Are frogs bothering the farms? Or something like these new monsters?”

“No, I don’t think it’s related to any of that. A man named Gordie was the first person I spoke to, but I got to speaking with others from the town. Something’s been attacking the farms—something supernatural, I’ve been told. Shattering windows, knocking down walls, burning the houses and barns. A few of the farms have been completely destroyed. These events happen during the night-time. Definitely not the work of the frogs, or the Ogdru Jahad.”

“More like the cases the Bureau used to bother with, before all this crap started, isn’t it? I’m assuming arson and vandalism have been ruled out?”

Abe shrugged airily. “The people there say they’ve been seeing bullet holes appear in the walls out of nowhere, windows breaking without a soul around. I’m inclined to believe them rather than think they made up the whole story.”

“Any funny history to the township?” Ben asked. “Are we talking about one of those good, tiny, God-fearing communities with a dirty secret or two?”

“I wouldn’t rule out a demonic presence, but it seems odd for this part of the country,” Abe said. “I had the pleasure of meeting the oldest resident of the township— a Ms. Belleau, who looks and acts old enough to have seen the farm build up from scratch.”

“Nice old bat?”

Abe chuckled bitterly. “Nice old _harpy_. Your typical cranky and hateful village matriarch, with maybe a touch of dementia. She’s the only one who insisted that nothing was going on in the town, thank you very much, and that the farms were doing just fine before the younger generation moved in and started taking over, making up all these tales for attention. You know the sort.”

“Charming. So what are you thinking? Ghost? Poltergeist? Some other kind of possession?”

“Maybe,” Abe said. “Could be a forest spirit, or sasquatch, or a wendigo, for all I know.”

“Hey now. Darryl’s innocent. I can vouch for his airtight alibi. He was with me the whole time, watching me choke down a nice piece of burnt moose ass.”

Abe blinked at him, with maybe the barest hint of a smile. “I didn’t get a chance to look into it. I told Mr. Gordie and the other farmers I’d come by again in a day or two, after I took take of something.”

“So you’d rather come sit with me than chase a monster or two? You big softie.”

“Shut up. I thought we could go visit the farms in the morning.”

Now Ben couldn’t help but feel uneasy, even though this was exactly what he wanted. “So we’re both going on this little expedition? I can’t remember the last time I talked to someone who wasn’t out of a cryptozoology manual.”

“I could use your help. And your gun. Pretend it’s like old times.”

“Old times, eh?” Ben said, grinning a little. "Who needs the Bureau? Daimio and Sapien, private paranormal investigators, at your service, ma'am!"

Ben chuckled at his own joke, maybe a little too hard, because Abe cast him an uncertain look that said it all: Christ, I hope he isn't losing his mind out here.

Clearing his throat, Ben said, “I look like a friggin’ yeti. You think they’ll want me poking around in their farms?”

“Why not? They’ve seen me already. They won’t care.”

“I probably smell like last month’s gym socks.”

“What a coincidence,” Abe airily said, giving the backpack with his foot. “I brought you a new pair.”

***

As it turned out, Abe was right; when they got to this Mr. Gordie’s farm bright and early the next morning, leaving Darryl to mope about in the woods on his own, the farmer didn’t even bat at eye at them. Not at Abe’s creature-from-the-Black-Lagoon appearance, and not at Ben’s Wildman-with-half-a-face-missing look.

“I’m glad you came back!” the man said, addressing Abe. He was a tall, lanky fellow with thick brown hair and a goatee, no older than forty. “It’s still happening, you know, what I told you about. Last night the MacArthur farm almost burned down!”

The front porch of Gordie’s house soon became the de facto meeting hall of the township. As soon as the neighbours learned that the ‘guy from the ghost-hunting agency’ was here (and brought a friend), word spread and the tiny population was gathered around them. Ben found it oddly comforting that aside from a few curious blinks, no one seemed fazed by his appearance. He did get a few dirty looks from an old woman with a long, beaked nose and jet-black hair streaked through and through with white; but then again, she seemed to be glaring at everyone around her. This had to be Ms. Belleau; everyone was making a distinct point of ignoring her as she complained and tried to make her way to the front of the crowd.

A young woman with blond hair in a long ponytail and a bright blue toque was standing by the porch. “The night before, it was bullet holes at our house,” she said. “We’ve got solid walls, you know. Concrete foundation. And it’s like someone’s shooting at us, only there’s no one, and these big bullet holes just pop out of nowhere. I don’t know if it matters, but we’re next to the MacArthur farm.”

“It was the windows at our place, the night before that,” a middle-aged man said, earning a glare from Ms. Belleau as she passed him. “Shattering, just like that! And we’re right next to Francine’s place. It’s like everything’s happening in a row.”

“That’s true,” Gordie said, mouth agape as though he’d only just realized the pattern. “The night before that, it was the stable over at Serge’s that just caught fire, and he’s one house down from Michel there.”

Ben exchanged a knowing look with Abe; patterns weren’t exactly unusual when it came to this sort of thing.

Francine shuffled on her feet and timidly said, “It’s ghosts, isn’t it?”

“Are you here to perform an exorcism?” Serge asked.

“If there’s anything we can do to help--”

“I have holy water at home!”

“Shut up! Enough!”

The last cry came from Ms. Belleau; the elderly woman had finally pushed her way to the front of the porch, until she stood between Ben and Abe. She gave both men a narrow-eyed once-over before deciding to address Ben.

“Like I already told your funny friend here, the farms are _fine_. I don’t know what everyone’s worked up about!”

Ben resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead giving Abe a pointed look as another nearby man spoke up.

“But the fires… the horses could have died… there’s been no one there to start any fires.”

“Kids!” Ms. Belleau shrieked. “Young folk! No respect! When I came to this town with my parents, we didn’t have these sorts of problems. Everyone was respectful.”

“Then ma’am, you’ve lived in this township for a long time?” Abe asked evenly.

“Since day one! I saw these farms built. And I saw everyone leave, or pass away, and these _new_ folk moved it and took over the farms.” She punctuated her sentence with a glare towards Gordie, who stared back with the holy patience of a man who’d heard this diatribe way too many times before.

“So, you ever seen ghosts around here?” Ben asked, maybe a little more brusquely than was necessary, but he’d never cared for the interviewing witnesses part of Bureau duty. He was already itching for something to do. “Demons? Monsters?”

“Nothing!” Ms. Belleau said, looking horrified at the thought. “How dare you! How much are they paying you to say these things? You need to leave!”

Damn protective old bat, Ben thought bitterly. No one wants to think their house is possessed or that their town is just bloody weird. No wholesome little house on the prairie in real life.

“It’ll be fine, ma’am,” Abe said. He certainly could be diplomatic when he wanted to, Ben thought. “We won’t bother you, we won’t touch a thing unless we have to. We’ll have a look tonight and if there’s nothing, we’ll leave.”

“No!” Ms. Belleau cried. Her bony fingers curled into fists. “Everyone needs to leave! Everyone!”

“All right, maybe…” Gordie coughed, speaking and acting gently as though he was quite aware he was dealing with an old woman missing a marble or two. He placed a mitten-covered hand on Abe’s shoulder and tried to lead him and Ben towards the inside of his house. “Maybe we should just give these men some supplies and send them on their way soon, all right Ms. Belleau? Would that be all right?”

The old woman was not soothed one bit, but she couldn’t seem to think of anything else to add. She wrinkled her beak-like nose and muttered, “No respect… no respect at all” as she turned away from the porch, the gathered crowd parting readily to let her pass.

“I’m sorry about her,” Gordie sighed, removing his cap to nervously rub at his forehead. “She… she means well. She doesn’t like strange people in her village. We’re just lucky her house hasn’t been bothered yet.”

“You’re just wallowing in luck,” Ben mumbled. The crowd was still gathered, and their stares were starting to make him uncomfortable now.

Gordie nodded, as though he hadn’t caught on to the sarcasm. “So, is there anything you can do?”

“We’ll stay the night,” Abe said. “And see if we can spot anything unusual. We can’t promise anything, but…”

“Of course… of course.”

Ben asked, “Assuming these things are happening to one house after another on the same row, which farm are we looking at next?”

“Uh…” Gordie glanced over the crowd and finally pointed at a heavyset man with a thick beard. “There—the Degarrie farm.”

“All right,” Abe said, and turned towards Ben, addressing him. Ben knew that expression—game time. He couldn’t believe how much he’d missed doing this sort of thing. Somehow, waiting for Darryl to bring home dinner just wasn’t the same. “We’ll set up shop there and see what turns up tonight. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Oh, thank you,” Gordie said, and the gratitude was quickly echoed by the rest of the crowd. Damn; Ben wasn’t used to having such an audience. He hoped they weren’t about to screw it up. “Do you need anything, for real? Some dinner first?”

Ben nodded right away, not giving Abe the time to politely decline. “And if you don’t mind, if we could borrow some blankets or an extra coat…”

Gordie eagerly assented, gesturing the two towards the house. “Anything at all.”

Ben couldn’t help but smirk. He met Abe’s eyes as they followed the farmer into the house. He was quite looking forward to this outing, even though Abe’s expression was all but screaming _It’s going to be a long night._

Hell yeah, Ben thought. If we’re lucky.

***

“Got any more of that whiskey?” Ben asked, glumly gathering the scratchy woolen blanket around his shoulders. The blanket was on loan from Mr. Gordie’s farm, a little something to help ward off the cold while they waited for the phantom barn-mangler to show up. Ben would have preferred a fire, but that would have defeated the purpose of hiding in the bushes in the field behind the Degarrie farm. Way past midnight, and no sign of anything unusual—yet. There was a bright full moon out, and coupled with the reflective layer of snow, it was quite bright out.

Abe gave him a reproachful look, though he still dug into his pack and produced the half-full flask. “Drinking on the job, are we?”

“What’s the Bureau going to do, fire me?” Ben shrugged, screwing the cap off and sipping some of the whiskey. The metal of the flask was cold against his lips but the alcohol burned down his throat, giving him at least the appearance of warmth. He handed it back to Abe who, despite his admonishment, still took a drink of his own.

“Doubtful,” Abe said, putting the flask away and pulling his own blanket tighter around himself. In the complete quiet of the farm and the night, Ben realized he could hear the faint ripples of his gills against the collar of his jacket. It was a bloody weird sound.

“So, the Bureau…” Ben began, telling himself he only brought up the topic to cover the sound of Abe’s gills. “How _is_ it doing? Seriously. How’s the fight going?”

Abe didn’t answer right away, looking ahead blankly as though he couldn’t decide if the truth or a lie was better. “It’s… holding steady.”

No questions about the Bureau’s operations then. Got it. “Does everyone think I’m dead?”

“No,” Abe said, and this time there was no hesitation, so Ben knew he was being truthful. “But—no offense- the Bureau has other priorities at the moment.”

Ben smirked. “I bet. What about you?”

“What _about_ me?”

“How have you been doing?”

“Fine. Just fine.”

Oh hell yes, there was plenty Abe wasn’t telling him. Ben wasn’t the prying sort, but damn if he wasn’t curious.

“Someone at the Bureau giving you trouble?”

“Everyone at the Bureau’s giving me trouble, except for Kate.” He sighed. “It’s a long story, Ben. Maybe on my next visit.”

Yeah. Another six months from now. “Whatever you say.”

He was about to ask Abe for more of the whiskey when a soft sound caught his attention. Under the blanket, he put his hand on his gun and narrowed his eyes towards the barn. Abe heard the sound too; he sat up straighter, the ripple of his gills now silent.

Ben continued to stare out, on high alert, and almost groaned in dismay when he realized what the sound was: a single goose, white and standing out against the dark wood of the Degarrie barn, casually strolled by with a soft honk.

“A friggin’ goose,” Ben sighed.

The goose cocked its head, staring out into the bushes as though zeroing right in on the two. Either not seeing them, or satisfied there was no threat (or food) to be found, it continued its bobbing journey towards the barn.

Ben was about to slump back onto the snowy ground, when the goose gave another honk—a loud, discordant honk—as the white feathers of its head suddenly turned black, as though someone had spilled ink on its head.

“You saw that?” Ben asked.

“You don’t suppose…?”

Ben sighed, slinging the blanket off his body. “I was hoping for something more interesting than a goose. At least I’ll have tomorrow’s dinner taken care of.”

“Darryl will be thrilled,” Abe said, shrugging off his woolen blanket too and unsnapping his gun from its holster as the goose strolled in to the entrance of the barn.

Carefully they stepped across the field, boots crunching lightly on the snow. The barn door was open a crack, enough to let the small body of the goose inside. Gun drawn, Ben motioned to Abe that he was about to kick the door open the rest of the way.

“I’d say it’s just a harmless little goose, but…” Abe whispered.

Ben chuckled. “… But we’ve been with the Bureau long enough to know better. Get ready.”

Abe merely blinked at him, signal enough that he was ready. Clutching his gun a little tighter, just to make sure it was still in his hand, Ben gave the barn door a good hard kick, shoving his way inside before the heavy door had a chance to swing back.

The barn was dark, but there was enough moonlight spilling in to clearly illuminate the mostly-white goose. It was standing in the middle of the barn, calmly cocking its ink-black head towards the two men as though it’d been waiting for them.

Probably because it had been waiting, Ben realized, and not a moment too soon as the goose made a loud, screaming honk, and spread its wings.

Only the wings didn’t stop spreading; they grew and extended from the goose’s small body, the tips growing into fingerlike claws. The body was itself morphing and stretching, the soft white feathers shifting into hard, disgusting plates, the head and beak growing and stretching into a grotesque mockery of a goose face. There was nothing sweet or birdlike about its eyes now; they blazed a dark orange, and through its misshapen beak, the goose-monster howled at the two.

“Ah, shit,” Ben muttered.

“I guess that solves one mystery,” Abe said. He calmly stared up at the monster as it flapped its huge, clawed wings, honk-growling at them before bringing its wing around to swipe at them.

Ben dove, rolled-- wincing a little as he jarred his shoulder because damn, he was out of shape when it came to tumbling around like this—and brought his gun up, firing two rounds at the goose. He missed, or at least barely made any damage worth mentioning, as the goose didn’t so much as flinch. He heard three or four other shots—Abe, from somewhere on the other side of the barn.

Damn goose-monster wasn’t having any of it. Bullets either bounced off those weird feather-plates, or else didn’t much impress a creature whose main interests included terrorizing farms on the Ontario countryside. Ducking another swipe of the massive wings, Ben snuck under a thick wooden ladder, sparing one quick peek to make sure Abe was okay—and of course he was, side-stepping the goose’s blows like a ballet dancer. That was one of the many things Ben appreciated about having Abe with him in the field: he could count on the guy to take care of himself until either he or their enemy dropped dead.

And that gave him time to think; guns weren’t going to put much of a dent in the goose, and he needed to find something, a weapon. He wondered briefly if torching the barn would kill it, but chances are it would just run out while still ablaze, and damage the other farms. No. Something else.

It was still dark in the barn, but a stream of moonlight illuminated the top of a hayloft and Ben saw the glint of big, sharp tools. Maybe a nice pitchfork would do the trick.

“Abe! Hold this thing off for me for a sec!”

He didn’t bother checking if Abe had heard his instruction—the sound of rapid shots being fired made it clear enough that Abe was doing his best to distract the goose. Making sure the way was clear, Ben quickly climbed the wooden ladder to the top of the hayloft, scanning the dried hay for the glint of metal, and smiled widely through the gap in his cheek; no pitchfork, but a nice scythe. Maybe there was a God.

And Christ, the thing was heavy, Ben thought huffily as he hoisted the huge tool and stepped to the very edge of the hayloft, appraising the scene down below. Abe had spotted him teetering up there, and seemed to know without asking what Ben wanted—at once, Abe started running towards the ladder, in that big showy manner people in movies always used when they were trying to lure a monster into following them. And it worked, because the goose honked angrily and flapped its wings as it took two huge steps towards the hayloft, crooked beak swiping down to snap at Abe.

Without really thinking about his game plan, Ben jumped, misjudging his distance a little as the weight of the scythe threw him off. Despite the ungraceful swan dive, he still managed to land on the thing’s back, knocking the wind from his lungs as he collided with the hardened feathers. And holy shit, those things were disgusting to the touch, like dried, hardened and wrinkled skin. What the hell kind of goose was this? It was almost as though it was wearing some old woman’s thickened skin.

It definitely sensed him landing on its back, twisting and bucking to try and shake him off. Cursing, Ben had to let go of the scythe, or risk getting tossed from the thing’s back. The scythe landed with a loud, heavy thump on the dirt ground, catching Abe’s attention, who re-holstered his gun and made a dash for the tool.

Ben spent a few precarious seconds wondering how he could get himself off the back of the goose without breaking his neck, and finally opted to stay put, bracing himself against the monster’s bucking by digging his fingers between the leathery feathers of its neck. On the ground, Abe lifted the scythe, sidestepping the goose’s massive, stomping feet to try and get close enough to land a blow. Just when Ben thought he would, the goose honked and kicked, catching Abe in the side and sending him hurtling through the air.

“Abe!” Ben didn’t see where he landed, but he didn’t need to see any more—screw it, now he was _pissed._

“That’s it, you old bag,” he muttered. “Now it’s personal.”

When the goose bucked again, he didn’t try to stay on, and instead allowed the momentum to carry him up, doing his best to tuck and roll as he struck the cold ground. As much as he wanted to scramble to his feet and find Abe, make sure he was okay, he had a job to do first, and ran for the discarded scythe.

Ben had to turn his back on the goose to pick up the scythe, and for a split second felt the flap of air against his back, knowing the thing was bearing down on him—and Ben let the weight of the scythe spin him around, arms trembling under the heavy tool and hoping it was about to connect.

It did, but not in the way he expected; instead of stabbing the goose with the long bladed part, the goose’s wing slammed down hard on the blunt edge of the scythe. Ben knew, from the loud series of cracks, that the limb had been badly broken. Sure enough, the monster reared back, shrieking and stamping in pain, and Ben had to drop the scythe and roll away to avoid being crushed by the creature’s spindly feet.

Under his gaze, the monster shifted and began to shrink, bony plates once again changing into soft white feathers and beak elongating back into something more natural as it shrank back into the shape of a goose. Its head was jet-black for a moment before the colour lifted, leaving a small, normal-looking goose behind, though with a shattered right wing.

Huffing for breath, Ben watched the goose shrieking pathetically, hobbling out of the barn and back into the snowy night, trailing its broken wing behind. He would have been tons happier to see the thing dead, but something told him this was just as good. Scrambling to his feet, Ben quickly made his way over to Abe, who’d gotten back up on his feet and was experimentally bending his knee.

“Anything broken?” Ben asked.

Abe shook his head and put his leg down, testing the limb. “Twisted it a little. It’s fine.”

“Good.”

“Do you want to chase that thing down?” Abe asked, cocking his head towards the open barn door.

Outside, Ben could hear the goose scrambling away, still shrieking, and all of a sudden he could swear there was something familiar about the goose’s voice.

“Nah,” Ben said. He reached for Abe’s arm to put it over his shoulder, offering help that wasn’t really necessary, but he was feeling useful as hell and wanted the feeling to last. Abe didn’t object. “I don’t know about you, but I think I know why that ‘goose’ is hanging around here. I think we took the fight out of it.”

“Good job there, Ben.”

Ben nodded. “Just like old times.”

***

They returned to Gordie’s farm as the sun was rising. Evidently, the town had spent a restless night waiting for news from the two, and within minutes a sizeable crowd had gathered on the porch.

Gordie himself was out of his house practically the moment the two stepped foot on his property, staring at them with wide, excited eyes. “So? Did you see anything? Did you do the exorcism?”

Before answering, Ben quickly scanned the crowd, noticing the same wide-eyed, friendly villagers from the previous day.

There was only one thing of considerable note; Ben nudged Abe in the ribs, cocking his head towards the tail end of the crowd; there, standing far away from the rest of the township, was Ms. Belleau, her black-and-white hair looking a bit more disheveled than the previous day, with her arm bandaged and in a homemade sling. She was glaring at the crowd and at Ben and Abe, but seemed much more withdrawn now, almost timid as she slunk away.

“It wasn’t a demon,” Ben said in reply to Gordie’s question. “Call it a little… old-fashioned sorcery on behalf of a long-time town resident. But I think you’ll be fine from now on.”

Murmurs of gratitude and joy spread through the crowd. For his part, Gordie slumped in relief, pulling off his cap to wipe at his brow. “Oh, thank you—thank you both, so much! Is there anything we can do for you? We could pay for your services--”

“That won’t be necessary,” Abe politely said.

“What about breakfast? You can stay in the town as long as you want.”

“Pretty decent of you,” Ben said. “But we have to move on.”

With a few parting words of appreciation from the crowd, and with Abe limping slightly at his side, Ben walked out of the town and back towards the wood, resisting even a parting glance at the village witch with her broken arm. He didn’t want anyone to see how widely he was smiling.

 

***

“A witch. Should have figured.”

Filled with energy, Ben paced about as Abe carefully packed up his bag, sliding it onto his shoulders and tightening the straps just so. Ben figured he had a long walk ahead of him; yet despite the sleepless night, he didn’t look the least bit exhausted.

“Well, we did it,” Abe said. “She probably won’t bother the town anymore. Good job, Ben—though I don’t think I’ll be typing up a report on this one any time soon.”

“Don’t blame you. How are you going to explain that limp to everyone back at the Bureau?”

Abe shrugged airily. “Go-kart accident?”

Ben chuckled. Damn, but he didn’t want Abe to go. He was going to miss having someone to banter with. “Hey… this was fun, you know? I can’t tell you how much I missed the action. We make a pretty good team.”

“We do.”

A friendly clap on the shoulder should have been enough, but screw it. He pulled Abe into a quick hug, all business, hard claps on the back, but still the most satisfying bit of affection he could ever remember getting.

“Take care of yourself, Abe.”

“I’ll see you again,” Abe said, giving him the closest thing that came to an Abe-smile. “I’ll come visit soon.”

“I know you will.”

And with that Abe was gone, feet crunching on the snow a little irregularly thanks to the sore knee. Ben watched him go until he couldn’t make out Abe’s shape anymore, until the sun rising and reflecting off the snow made his eyes smart. _See you soon, brother._

Heaving a sigh, Ben turned back towards the woods. There came the gentle snap of branches from his left, as Darryl tentatively approached, now that the coast was clear.

Ben couldn’t help it. “Honey! I’m home!”

He couldn’t be sure, but this time, he suspected Darryl really did roll his eyes.

 _The End_

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Yuletide, my dear! I hope you enjoy this friendship/monster-hunting story between Ben and Abe. The main adventure is based off an old Canadian ghost story called the "Baldoon Mystery", in which farms in Wallaceburg, Ontario were disturbed by a witch, appearing as a goose with a black head.
> 
> Enjoy, and I look forward to saying "Hi!" in person after the author reveal!


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